


Dissonance

by drunken_anecdotes



Series: Linchpin [1]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Explicit Language, Hallucinations, Jason's kinda messed up, Minor Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, Tags May Change, Therapy, possible over-used plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunken_anecdotes/pseuds/drunken_anecdotes
Summary: The nightmare was supposed to be over for Jason and his friends. They finally made it out. Back to California. Back to the lives they led before that fateful trip. They were supposed to be safe.... He should have known that it was never going to be that easy.Where can Jason run to when there's nowhere else to hide?





	Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this in my spare time, on and off. Hopefully I've done it justice! Will continue as much as possible. Let me know what you think!  
> 

 

 

 

> _"'Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?' and sometimes, 'Do bats eat cats?' for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way she put it."_
> 
> -Lewis Carroll, 'Alice in Wonderland'

 

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

It took a little over six days before they were found adrift at sea.

A merchant ship sailing through the Gulf of Thailand spotted them. At first, the group was hesitant to respond to the ship’s call, all six members hiding in various spots on deck, underneath tarps and in the berth of the boat. The rusted ham radio onboard crackled with static and foreign words; no one understood entirely of what was said. They weren’t even sure if they were far enough from the islands to trust any ship approaching, not after evading patrol boats in their haphazard escape from Rook, but they had no other choice. Low on fuel, and having to ration the food they initially brought onboard before their abduction, left them weary and a little desperate for assistance.

It had paid off in the end. A few workers on the working vessel spoke broken English and before they knew it they were refueled and directed to the closest docks near the coast and one step closer to heading home.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

It took ten days from their seaside rescue to return to California.

 

Through the US Embassy in Bangkok there were emergency passports distributed, families contacted,  medical checkups and luckily, Oli’s contact with his father and their financial support to speed up the process. Six tickets from BKK to LAX, one-way with no stops, and only two carry on bags between them all.  

It was a long trip, all but one member of the group dozing in and out as the plane flew over familiar lands. It didn’t matter to Jason that he hadn’t slept since they left the Embassy the day before, or that his left hand still throbbed whenever he used it. He just ignored the pain and focused on his friends scattered in the seats around him, and his brother Riley sitting next to him, using Jason’s shoulder as a head rest while he slept.

It didn’t matter. Grant wasn’t with them, he couldn’t save him back then, but Jason saved the rest. He couldn’t sleep until they all landed. He figured it was the least he could do after what he put them through.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

It took two weeks upon their return for the media outlets to slowly cease bombarding them about their “Harrowing Escape”.

 

They had a  quick visit from an associate of a particular CIA agent the minute they left their gate at LAX, informing the group that the news of their return was out and for them not to tell the media any details of their escape - supposed loose ends were being tied in the case, and Jason’s involvement need not be mentioned. It was probably their involvement that led to the media diversion, but all in all new traumatic headlines took place over their titles of “Rescued Victims of Human Trafficking”, and life started to go back to normal. At least, as normal as it could.

There were tough discussions with family and outside friends. Not much could be said without breaking down or storming off. Jason’s mom didn’t cope well with Grant not coming back; a lack of answers and lack of body to even properly bury. Despite the empty coffin, Grant still received a proper military funeral. Everyone was in attendance, with Jason, Riley and their mom receiving the folded flag at the end. His mom took it, clutching it tightly as if she was hugging her eldest son for the last time.

Jason just stood at her side staring at the piece of cloth in her hands. He still felt guilty for how things came to be, how he couldn’t save Grant, how he ran and just… left him behind. But a piece of dyed cloth wasn’t going to bring him back, and he already made his peace. This ceremony was for her.

Riley clung to her arm, silently shedding tears, finally mourning for their lost sibling. It was a stark reminder of how young Riley still was. Grant was seven years older, but Riley probably endured more bloodshed and horror on Rook Island, then Grant did in his whole military career.

He sometimes wonders if... had their roles been reversed… maybe Grant would have saved Riley sooner. Saved the others sooner.

But he rescued Jason first. And now look where it got him. His family’s burying a ghost.

If only he had...

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

It took four months after Grant’s funeral for Jason to finally relent and make a therapy appointment.

 

Riley was adamant that he go as soon as possible. He was already on his way to processing everything that occurred, and although he had the occasion night terror he felt that he was getting better. Fewer shakes, and even fewer flashbacks. His shoulder was healing up nicely too. He’s even mentioned applying for a pilot’s position once he’s cleared.

They were all getting some sort of help, one way or the other. Daisy had her swim training and grief counselling, finally processing Grant’s death. Despite Oliver’s lack of parental support even now, he seemed to be doing better as well. He still came over to Jason’s house (or rather his mom’s house; Jason’s old apartment was given to new tenants in his absence) once a week to hang out and try to get back to a sense of normalcy. His claim of smoking copious amounts of weed as “medicinal” being more valid than ever now. Liza... Liza didn’t really speak to Jason as much anymore, not that he could blame her. She still called every once in a while to check up on everyone,  but she was getting her own help and was more focused than ever in furthering her acting career, and just moving on.

Keith was a different case. It was slower for him to open up, but he started talking to a counselor so it was at least a step in the right direction. Jason knew that Keith wouldn’t be the same again, but at least he was trying. Jason only had to reassure him once that “Buck the Fuck” was really, truly dead and his body was rotting so far away that even his ghost couldn’t find him.

To be honest, Jason wasn’t entirely sure if he was reassuring Keith or himself when he told him that, but it didn’t matter. Keith felt better after he said it and his friend resumed his sessions. Life went on.

Despite the confidence he tried to give, Jason wasn’t… really sure about a lot of things that happened to him back on Rook. He could piece together all the major events. He remembered what he did to stop his friends and family from being sold off as slaves. He knew what was sacrificed to get them back home... It was the details that kept him up at night.

The final fight he had with Buck, with Hoyt… with Vaas…

The tatau spreading, growing as his death toll reached triple digits...

His left arm pulsated whenever he really, truly thought about it; a low thrum just beneath the skin, where the inked symbols have yet to fade.

So many blank spots in his memory.  
If it wasn’t for the hack-job on his left hand, he could almost pretend those knife fights were part of a dream.  
A neon, technicolor nightmare.

 

She was supposed to be a specialist in her field, highly recommended, but that didn’t warrant Jason’s trust regardless of “client confidentiality”. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t understand. Hell, Jason didn’t fully understand himself but he knew deep down that if he told her what really happened, how he really felt… he’d end up leaving her office in either handcuffs or a straitjacket.

 

          “I understand your hesitancy, Jason. After the traumatic experiences you’ve described, you must be feeling a variety of emotions.  
           Unease, confined, mostly likely distrust which is fairly common. But I want you to know that I’m here to help.”

 

Right… Help, sure.

 

          “Yes, that’s really what this is all about. I’m here to help you process the ordeal, and how to overcome any and all obstacles you feel have resulted from it all.”

 

Right…

 

Silence stretched between them after every question. She wanted him to elaborate, asking him how he felt when he answered with more than one or two words, what he was thinking about in those moments, all said in soothing tones. He wasn’t defensive in his responses or at least tried not to be, but he didn’t want to share anything with a complete stranger. He was still processing the details, little by little in his own way, and didn’t want someone asking him for answers he didn’t have just yet.

 

 

          “So Jason… Overall, do you feel things have changed since you came back?”

 

Not really, no…

 

Jason stayed silent again.

 

 _‘Yeah… Understatement of the fucking century right there’_ , he thought bitterly.

 

His eyes wandered from one corner of the dull carpet in her office to legs of her chair.  He already assessed all the furniture, the only entry and exit, the psych books and personal knick knacks on the shelves aligning the walls of the room, her certificates hanging proudly behind her desk, to the only window adjacent to his chair within minutes of entering. Another habit he retained. He flexed his left hand behind his seat, clenching his fingers into a fist then unclenching once the familiar sting set in. It was the only thing he could do to refrain from fidgeting or simply getting up and leaving. He didn’t like staying in one place for too long. It made him antsy. Exposed.  

It was then he realized that... yeah, that was the problem. The main reason he even agreed to this whole appointment/therapy thing.

 **Nothing’s changed**!

After months of living on a tropical island honing his survival skills, fighting for his life from the moment he woke up in that fucking cage and then receiving the  _tatau_ ; fighting for _the lives of the natives_ ( _his people_ at the time) and _the lives of his friends_. From liberating _both_ North AND South Islands _single_ _handedly_ , to becoming a _warrior_ , a _leader_ of the Rakyat, and having a fucking bounty on his head _TWICE_ only to come out victorious in the end…  
After Citra…  
After everything…

 

Only for Jason to come back to California.. to nothing. Not a single fucking thing different. Just the same mundane, insignificant bullshit he was trying to run away from before he even landed on Rook… over and over and over again, day in and day out… As if nothing happened.  
  
  


          “Jason, before the session ends I’d like to try something a bit different.  
           Instead of me asking you questions, I’m going to say a word and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes into your head.  
           There’s no right or wrong answers with free association. You can be as thorough as you’re comfortable with. ”

 

… Sure.

 

She started with a few simple words. “Stop” - watch.“Ear” - lobe. “Rain” - forest . “Travel” - agent.  
Simple answers to simple words, nothing to connect back to his experiences.  
But his thoughts still ran through the same vein; Rook never really strayed from his mind, not anymore.

 

         “Okay, just a few more: Car”

 

Jeep.

(‘ _Scavengers, buggy,_ _cargo_ , _red and rusted’_ , he doesn’t add)

 

          “Flashlight”

 

Cave.

(‘ _Relics; Bears.. Unlucky bastards who wandered too far’)_

 

          “Fire”

 

Molotov.

( _‘Drunk fucks with bad aim… God, they were so easy to take down’_ )

 

Jason looked away.

 

She must have noticed, and paused to write down his response in her notepad. She nodded to herself, humming what she might have thought was an encouraging tone. Jason’s stomach dropped… _Shit_.

 

          “Camera”

 

Ransom.

(‘ _Liza.. Shit, Jason keep it together, man’_ )

 

Another pause, another note written.  Jason glanced at the exit.

 

          “Mushroom”

 

Agnes- Wait, no-

(‘ _Shut it Jason! For fuck’s sake, seriously?’_ )

 

 

          “It’s okay, Jason. There’s no wrong answers. There’s no need to retract. I just have a few more here”

 

She paused once more for her notes. Jason couldn’t help the resentment he felt. He didn’t want to get into it, not here, not now. Didn’t want to give her fuel for questions. She looked back up once she was done.

 

 

          “Path”

 

Wa-Road.

( _‘Fuck.. FUCK_ ’)

 

Another note written. Jason glanced at the exit again, fist clenched behind his chair. Outward he was stock still, calm and collected. Inside his heart raced. He felt spotted; a target hanging over his head.

 

 

          “Nail”

 

… Cross.

(‘ _And let me be rebo-_ ‘)

 

          “Sky”

 

… Dive.

(‘ _Up there, you thought you had a chance-’_ ) 

 

          “Home”

 

Jason took a deep breath instead of answering, catching the words before they had a chance to leave his mouth. He glanced at the clock sitting on her desk, eighteen minutes left.  
_Fuck this._

 

He left. Walked through the office door without a second glance, ignoring her calls to turn back and finish the session.  

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

It took four weeks after his session to realize that, despite trying to write it off as just coincidences, or a hyperactive imagination, or just something to satisfy his hunger for something, _anything_ to happen… He was being tailed.

 

People turning away when he spotted them staring. Cell phones slyly taken out and pointed in his direction (and one guy dumb enough to use flash). He tried not to jump to conclusions; didn’t want to start anything with anyone, but it just didn’t add up.

He took to going to the gym at odd hours when he couldn’t sleep, just wanting to just burn off the restlessness and excess energy he tended to have nowadays. However, seeing the same beat up car parked two streets down from his house miraculously parked in the gym lot whenever he came out just cemented this.

His first thought was the press. Maybe they were trying to find dirt for a follow up piece on his “rescue”, but no one ever approached him even weeks after him noticing. Internet searches were inconclusive/ It seemed that the general public stopped caring. He was yesterday’s news.

Whoever they were, they were good at avoiding confrontation. He couldn’t corner them whenever he spotted something off, always disappearing when he thought he had them locked in his sight. It was unnerving, constantly feeling eyes on the back of his head whenever he left he left the house.

He felt like prey.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

It took fifteen days for the package to arrive on Jason’s doorstep, according to the postmark.

 

To everyone else, it looked like a small, green wooden box with rusted hinges. Faded writing on all sides suggested it probably housed something of military grade; the maker’s name was scratched off, but the inventory numbers were still somewhat visible beneath the dents and grime.  
  
He hadn't seen one of these in almost a year, but he knew exactly what it was.

 

In an instant, his vision narrowed. Senses spiked. Nothing else registered but the package on his doorstep.

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And it took one look at the mailing label addressee, scribbled in black permanent marker and laminated with packing tape, for Jason’s heart to drop; for icy chills to run down the back of his skull, and down his spine to the tips of his toes, cementing him to the ground. 

He couldn't breathe.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To:

**_Snow White_ **


End file.
